Clements sat for a minute with a faraway look in his eyes.
"Do we know anyone who can make Navy Operations toe the mark?"
"Of course. Why?"
Clements tapped his finger-tips together.
"Wouldn't it be interesting to filter the mission reports of all Navy
ships that have been outside the atmosphere in, oh, say the last
thirty-six hours?"
Jordan's eyes lit up like twin afterburners.
"They'll have it hidden like the British crown jewels, but...." He
grabbed the phone. "Gerry? Have General Criswell paged and ask him to
come to my office if possible." He chuckled triumphantly. "Criswell's on
the Joint Security Service Board ... what an exercise for that gumshoe
outfit!"
* * * * *
It took three hours for General Criswell's ferrets to obtain facsimiles
of the reports needed. A sweating staff (borrowed from the cryptographic
section to preserve secrecy) finally broke them down to three probables:
a Lunar courier which had aborted and returned to base for no clean cut
reason, an alleged training exercise in three body orbits with the
instructors' seats inexplicably filled with nothing lower than the rank
of Lieut. Commander and a sour smelling sortie out of Guantanamo labeled
_Operation Artifact_.
* * * * *
Jordan remained sold on the latter for half an hour until fuel
consumption and flight time log figures failed to correlate with an
orbital flight, and the bottom fell out of the case. As it turned out it
was the courier after all. Both the pilot and his commander refused to
talk until presented with the alternative of court-martial proceedings.
_Senator Darius:_ Now, Admiral, I'm going to put the question to you
this way, just to see if I can get a straight answer. Did you or did you
not issue orders to Lunar Courier G771 specifying _in general substance_
that it was to retrieve satellite '58 Beta?
_Admiral Flack:_ (hurt but proud) The Navy, sir, has a long record of
gallantry, a tradition of derring do dating back to John Paul Jones ...
a tradition we are all proud of and which we continue and will always
continue....
_Senator D:_ (with acid patience) Again, if I may put the question,
Admiral. Did you or did you not issue the order?
_Admiral F:_ (defiantly) '58 Beta is Navy property, sir! I am glad and
proud to say that I issued the order to retrieve her.
_Senator D:_ Aha! (to the recording secretary) Did you get that? And
now, Admiral, will you explain to this committee why this action, in
view of the exigencies of the present situation, didn't strike you as
singularly high handed, not to say out of your jurisdiction?
_Admiral F:_ (after a whispered consultation with an aide) Well, sir,
there is a precedent. May I recall to your attention an incident
recorded in Navy history about eighty years ago. An officer of flag
rank, if my memory holds, in defiance of instructions and in a damaged
ship, at great danger to himself and his crew, acting on an operational
plan which had been scathingly disapproved by his superiors, went to the
rescue ... the successful rescue ... of a three-man Lunar exploration
party which had become lost near the south scarp of Sinus Iridum. The
officer's name, I am almost certain, was Captain Steven Darius ... the
Senator's grandfather, I believe ... an officer the Navy will never
cease to honor.
_Senator D:_ (shuffling papers, clearing throat, wiping glasses) Well,
ah, yes Admiral ... I do recall something along those lines. Of course,
this is different ... altogether different. But at the same time, sir, a
most interesting parallel. The ... ah ... the committee will recess
until two o'clock. You are excused, Admiral. And ... oh, yes ... if
you're free, sir ... possibly you might join me at lunch?
* * * * *
"If I were you, chief," said Clements soothingly, "I would just stop
worrying about your jurisdiction in this thing. Beta's out of orbit, and
we no longer have a problem. How nice can things be?"
Jordan gritted his teeth and wadded up paper with an odd gesture, as
though his fingers were encircling someone's neck.
"You will be sorry you said that," he said peevishly. "Whatever happens
I'm going to assign it to you for action while I sit on the bench and
cheer." He rang for Gerry. "What's happening now ... I haven't been out
of here in three hours."
Clements stretched out on the Vibrolounge and turned it on.
"The president," he began, as the machine went to work, "has called an
arbitration meeting. Everyone's in on it ... Darius, Flack, Criswell,
Wamboldt, Larkin and the Lord knows who else. They are supposed to come
to some sort of agreement as to what's to be done. The minutes of the
meeting are expected to take the form of a recommendation to congress
for action. By way of the Advisory Committee for Astronautics with
Darius introducing the motion, of course."
"Of course," echoed Jordan. "Who else could?"
The door opened, and the huge glasses of Gerry peered in.
"Yes, chief?"
"Get on your telephone and finagle a way to route the first press
release from this big arbitration meeting direct to my DeskFax. Can do?"
Gerry nodded.
"No sweat, boss," she said and backed out.
"Now," said Jordan, returning to Clements, "you can get your overweight
carcass out of my chair and let me into it. Sit on the hot seat for a
while. I'll relax and you read the news when it comes in. It'll be your
bad luck, not mine."
The facsimile machine gave a little chug and began unwinding a pale
green, endless sheet. Clements began to read from it.
"In an unprecedented session at the White House today the President
revealed that a unanimous decision had been reached regarding the fate
of '58 Beta will be placed in the the congress for action it was
recommended that a solid copy of the historic satellite, complete with
meteor pits, be made and placed in a special display in the Smithsonian
Institution. The original itself, '58 Beta will be placed in the third
stage payload compartment of the Smithsonian's Vanguard missile and ...
in an historic re-enactment of the first launch ... will be injected
into permanent orbit about the Earth."
There was a loud snap as Jordan turned off the Vibrolounge. In a single,
convulsive movement he was on his feet and around the desk.
"Get out of my chair," he yelled at Clements. "Let me at that phone! Get
Gerry in here! Get Flack on the telephone ... try to catch him at the
White House if you can! And get Administration to send over some forms!"
Clements started for the other phone ... then stopped and stared at
Jordan.
"Forms?" he repeated slowly. "What kind of forms?"
Jordan's answer rattled the windows.
"Resignation forms, you idiot!"
* * * * *
General Criswell walked briskly to the front of the conference room. He
took chalk in one hand and pointer in the other. He rapped sharply on
the desk with the pointer and sent a keen, Air Force type glance over
his assembled staff.
"Gentlemen, by direction of Congress and under orders issued by the
Secretary of Defense the Air Force has been assigned the mission of
relaunching satellite '58 Beta. The launching vehicle will be either the
Smithsonian exhibit Vanguard or a duplicate if the old one proves to be
structurally unsuitable.
"To help you understand the magnitude of the problem involved and, of
course, to give you guidelines for additional staffing, I will review
for you the major techniques utilized in the original Vanguard
launchings. I have had copies of the 1958 launch documentary films
printed for each department. They represent excellent source material
for your planning sessions.
"Now, gentlemen ... the original Vanguard was the classic example of
what we now call, somewhat facetiously I'm afraid, the hybrid propulsion
system. It utilized chemical fuels throughout ... liquid oxygen and
kerosene in the first stage, fuming nitric acid and unsymmetrical
dimethyl-hydrazine in the second stage and an unknown form of solid
propellant in the third stage."
* * * * *
A buzz of nervous comment ran through the assembled officers, and
sitting in the back row, Jordan felt his blood run cold. Where, he
wondered in a sort of dreadful daze, would they even find a crew to work
on this project. No sane Launch Monitor he had ever known would even go
near such a bomb, much less work on it.
The General rambled on.
"Now the guidance system, gentlemen, may at first strike you as rather
incredible. However, it worked remarkably well in the original, and
there seems no reason to suppose we cannot force it to repeat. I foresee
some difficulty in finding manufacturers whose shop practices are
flexible enough ... or sloppy enough, if you prefer ... to turn out a
piece of mechanical gear to such low tolerances. However, we will ask
for bids and award to the lowest; that should do it. It always has in
the past at any rate." He paused to allow the chuckles to subside.
Jordan crept quietly out and headed for his office.
Clements was busy supervising the placement of two new file cabinets.
When he saw Jordan's face, he turned directly to his desk, poured a
lemonade and handed it to his chief. Jordan took the glass, paused
thoughtfully, opened a drawer and added a couple shots of gin.
Clements raised his eyebrows encouragingly, but Jordan simply drank and
shook his head dully.
"Horrible," he said. "Horrible, horrible."
He turned and walked slowly back to the conference.
By this time General Criswell had a film showing in progress.
"This, gentlemen," he was saying, "was the famous launch attempt of
December sixth, 1957."
Jordan had never seen the film, and he watched in fascination as the
launch crew scurried about their duties. Propellants and explosives
people appeared, waddling in grotesque acid suits. Liquid oxygen boil
off made a hazy lake in which men walked with apparent unconcern.
Then, from a fixed and apparently unattended camera came a steady,
portentous view of the rocket ... sleek and so incredibly slim that
Jordan wondered why on Earth it didn't simply topple over and be done
with it.
The sound track came to life with sudden, brassy violence. Someone was
counting backward. When he reached zero, the first stage engine burst
into life, the rocket lifted off its platform, slowed, began to tilt
slowly to one side and settled back into the stand. No, it kept right on
going through the stand. The rear section began to crumple. Then there
was a horrible burst of flame which engulfed the lower part of the
rocket and then, with perfectly savage violence, erupted in great
billowing bursts of fire until only the extreme tip of the missile was
visible. The conical top of the first stage fell off and disappeared
into the inferno rather like an ice cream cone falling into the sun. The
film stopped at this point.
"That," said General Criswell matter-of-factly, "was the end of the
first launch attempt. You will note, gentlemen, that not only was the
vehicle structurally weak, but it also burned well, once ignited. These
two points, I dare say, will exercise considerable influence over our
handling of this project."
Jordan, sick to his stomach, got up again and left the conference, this
time for good.
* * * * *
Once begun the program proceeded feverishly. A corps of designers rooted
through every available shred of data: microfilm, old blueprints and
ancient engineering notes from files so old that no one knew why they
still existed. Films, recorded data, technical histories and newspaper
reports ... nothing was spared.
Slowly at first and then with almost magical speed, the ancient Vanguard
came to life. Her structure took shape. Her tankage and guidance were
reproduced. Like long atrophied nerves and muscles her controls and
electrical system once more hummed with power. Her engines were
duplicated and tested (though not without an explosion or two), and her
gyros were run in (by shuddering engineers who were accustomed to
hitting Marsport on the nose with a box half the size). And tiny Beta,
her wee antennas and Hoffman solar cells carefully fitted into place,
now had a twin sister enshrined in the Smithsonian Institution.
Jordan reflected that it was a solution bordering on genius even though
he was forced to admit that Senator Darius was its foremost architect.
His feeling for the old coyote was still something less than brotherly,
though forced association had revealed unsuspected and valuable
negotiative skills.
* * * * *
One morning several weeks later Jordan sat before his desk which was
piled high with unanswered correspondence. He drank lemonade and glared
across at Clements whose desk was piled even higher.
"I told you this was going to be your baby," Jordan said, "but I guess I
can't make it stick. There's too much of this stuff." He waved at the
stacks of paper. "Where does all this junk come from?"
Clements picked up a letter at random.
"This one," he said, "is from the Dupont Chemical Corp. They want us to
send them the quality control specification for the hydrazine that was
used as fuel in the first launch. They say they can't proceed till they
have it."
He tossed the letter aside and picked up another. "Here's a purchase
request for four hundred yards of sailcloth. Now what the hell do you
suppose they want sailcloth for?"
"Maybe it's for another project," said Jordan, cramming half a doughnut
into his mouth. "I found one yesterday for hypodermic needles. On top of
that it wasn't signed."
"That figures," said Clements tossing the letter aside and picking up
another. "Now, how's this ... good grief! The Ancient Order of
Hibernians, if you please, formally requests that ... since '58 Beta was
launched on St. Patrick's day ... to do otherwise with this launch would
be unthinkable, sacrilegious, treasonable, etc, etc."
Jordan froze in his chair.
"That's the one!" His voice sounded faintly strangled. "That's the one
that'll kill us, right there! I have a feeling for these things. How
long till St. Patrick's day?"